Sleepside: the Collected Fantasies
“Horst von Ranke carefully read the maps spread on his lap, eyeglasses perched low on his nose, while Waffen Schutzstaffel Oberleutnant Albert Fischer drove. “Thirty-five kilometers,” Von Ranke said under his breath. “No more.”
“We are lost,” Fischer said. “We’ve already come thirty-six.”
“Not quite that many. We should be there any minute now.”
Fischer nodded and then shook his head. His high cheekbones and long, sharp nose only accentuated the black uniform with silver death’s heads on the hig...h, tight collar. Von Ranke wore a broad-striped gray suit; he was an undersecretary in the Propaganda Ministry. They might have been brothers, yet one had grown up in Czechoslovakia, the other in the Ruhr; one was the son of a brewer, the other of a coal-miner. They had met and become close friends in Paris, two years before, and were now sightseeing on a three-day pass in the countryside.
“Wait,” Von Ranke said, peering through the drops on the side window. “Stop.”MoreLess
“We are lost,” Fischer said. “We’ve already come thirty-six.”
“Not quite that many. We should be there any minute now.”
Fischer nodded and then shook his head. His high cheekbones and long, sharp nose only accentuated the black uniform with silver death’s heads on the hig...h, tight collar. Von Ranke wore a broad-striped gray suit; he was an undersecretary in the Propaganda Ministry. They might have been brothers, yet one had grown up in Czechoslovakia, the other in the Ruhr; one was the son of a brewer, the other of a coal-miner. They had met and become close friends in Paris, two years before, and were now sightseeing on a three-day pass in the countryside.
“Wait,” Von Ranke said, peering through the drops on the side window. “Stop.”MoreLess
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